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A Yuletide Tale Retold:
Here is a story I've told before, on my personal journal. But Christmas-Yule-Saturnalia is a time for retelling tales:
Like most children, I eventually grew out of a belief in any literally existing "Santa" (though, actually, his name is Claus -- calling him Santa's like calling him "Mister"). But when I was grown up, I came to believe in him again:
I was twenty-three, and a junior in college -- one of two mobility-impaired students on campus. The dorms we lived in were converted apartment buildings from the 1920s: two storeys, with a flight of stairs leading to the second floor right inside the door. ... I never went up the stairs.
So "Secret Santa" week rolls around, and our socks got tacked up to a wall in the common room, with our names above each. We each pull a name out of a hat. The name I pull belongs to someone who always went right up the stairs when she came in from class, and hardly ever came into the common lounge to hang out -- I wasn't even sure what her face looked like.
As I use a wheelchair, and don't drive, the only access I had for presents was the campus bookstore -- and the cafeteria. Unsure of what to get my mysterious "santee," that first day, I snagged an orange from the fruit bar, because that's at least traditional for a stocking stuffer. But it wouldn't be in keeping with the spirit of the game if I left it at that. So I went into the bookstore and perused the shelves of cute, deliberately made, Christmas gifts, which were alongside the boxed convenience foods that could be made on a hot plate or microwave, in the dorm room...
My hand to the Powers, I swear I heard a voice whisper in my ear: "Get the chicken soup." So I do.
Then I hurry back and put my gifts in her stocking, and duck out of the common room before anyone can see me. I was putting the key in my dorm room door when I heard someone come in, and head for the "Stocking Wall." The next thing I hear:
"An Orange! And Chicken Soup! Just what I needed -- I'm coming down with a cold!"
---
Now, I ask you: Who else but the Claus would know that?! So I am a believer forever: whether a spirit or corporeal being (or both, if the circumstances require), I believe Furry Nicholas is the Muse of Generosity -- the one who inspires us to find the perfect gift for the perfect moment, even if it is our name signed on the gift tag.
Io, Saturnalia! and Glad Yule!
Like most children, I eventually grew out of a belief in any literally existing "Santa" (though, actually, his name is Claus -- calling him Santa's like calling him "Mister"). But when I was grown up, I came to believe in him again:
I was twenty-three, and a junior in college -- one of two mobility-impaired students on campus. The dorms we lived in were converted apartment buildings from the 1920s: two storeys, with a flight of stairs leading to the second floor right inside the door. ... I never went up the stairs.
So "Secret Santa" week rolls around, and our socks got tacked up to a wall in the common room, with our names above each. We each pull a name out of a hat. The name I pull belongs to someone who always went right up the stairs when she came in from class, and hardly ever came into the common lounge to hang out -- I wasn't even sure what her face looked like.
As I use a wheelchair, and don't drive, the only access I had for presents was the campus bookstore -- and the cafeteria. Unsure of what to get my mysterious "santee," that first day, I snagged an orange from the fruit bar, because that's at least traditional for a stocking stuffer. But it wouldn't be in keeping with the spirit of the game if I left it at that. So I went into the bookstore and perused the shelves of cute, deliberately made, Christmas gifts, which were alongside the boxed convenience foods that could be made on a hot plate or microwave, in the dorm room...
My hand to the Powers, I swear I heard a voice whisper in my ear: "Get the chicken soup." So I do.
Then I hurry back and put my gifts in her stocking, and duck out of the common room before anyone can see me. I was putting the key in my dorm room door when I heard someone come in, and head for the "Stocking Wall." The next thing I hear:
"An Orange! And Chicken Soup! Just what I needed -- I'm coming down with a cold!"
---
Now, I ask you: Who else but the Claus would know that?! So I am a believer forever: whether a spirit or corporeal being (or both, if the circumstances require), I believe Furry Nicholas is the Muse of Generosity -- the one who inspires us to find the perfect gift for the perfect moment, even if it is our name signed on the gift tag.
Io, Saturnalia! and Glad Yule!
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Yay!
I wrote my essay, years ago, as an editorial, "Channeling Santa Claus." I explained that Santa Claus is a spirit of generosity, and people can learn to "draw down" that spirit just like they would for the Goddess. (It was for a Pagan magazine.)
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Thanks.
Many of the folkloric details in that article were taken from Santa Claus: Last of the Wild Men by Phyllis Siefker. I recommend it. Amazon Link: http://www.amazon.com/Santa-Claus-Last-Wild-Men/dp/0786429585
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I did manage to find it through my archive (Originally posted November 19, 2004), and here's the link to that works:
November 19, 2004 (with explanation of The Art Garden)
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2004, eh? I'd never heard of the Krampus till maybe a couple-three years ago, when the movie came out.
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That's the kind of info you gather when you're a fan of folklore and mythology from before you could read. ;-)
Anyway, yes. It was a fabulous format. The only drawback was that, as an audience member, you can't pause for as long as you need between pieces, to absorb what each means. On the other hand, having "live feedback" on what I wrote helped me develop my voice an rhythm.
When it began, and when I joined up (in 1989), it was four times a year. By the time it ended, (in 2012) it was down to once a year.
But that once-a-year meeting was the closest thing I had to a family gathering / reunion in my life (being an only child/unmarried single woman/asexual, with both parents deceased), and I miss it now, like whoa....
The